


Ignorance is Bliss.

by EfaBMaria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Addiction, Canon, Gen, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lestrade is an idiot, M/M, Mary Watson-Morstan was a wonderfull wife, Misogyny, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Or not, Or sex, Post Reichenbach, Very Minor Character Death, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian men don't talk about feelings, eventual Schwatsonlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EfaBMaria/pseuds/EfaBMaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The hidden and highly illegal account of Dr. J.H. Watsons struggles with life, love, and foremost, Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day one.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love you if you Beta this. English is my third language. Don't be too hard on me.
> 
> Thank you, mr. Doyle, for letting us have our wicked, wicked ways with your characters. Oh, how you must look down  
> upon us from heaven with pure hate in your eyes. I'm not even a little sorry.
> 
> I have taken my fair share from the fandom. Now it is my time to give back.

I have always documented my thoughts and my adventures. Some of them were meant to be published. Some of them to remember and treasure. Some of them to convince myself that Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was not mere a figment of my imagination and that our adventures had indeed happened. But this story does not belong in my archive, nor in the Strand. I do not think that mister Doyle would encourage me to publish this. No, this story is one for in the fireplace. I only wrote it because writing is my habit, it is what I do. About all that happens in my life. And writing it down makes it true.

If you, by chance, happen to be in possession of these documents, then I have been either brave or foolish. Or perhaps both.  
And I can only ask you, dear reader, not to judge Mr. Holmes and myself, nor our associates. We all are more than just this story. 

 

The LORD shall judge the people: judge me, O LORD, according to my righteousness, and according to mine integrity that is in me.   
Psalms 7:8

 

\--

It was a dreadful night, in which I found myself in my chair by the fire, waiting for a certain consulting detective. The man had disappeared almost a forth-night ago,   
only to return home during the hours I was making house calls or sleeping. I may not be a master in the science of deduction,   
but even this simple doctor can draw conclusions from half eaten toast and the smell of recently burned tobacco. I have always allowed Holmes his strange ways,   
but avoiding me for twelve days was where I drew the line. Not that the weeks previous to these had been better. After Holmes' initial enthusiasm about my return to Bakerstreet, he fell into a black mood, the size of it greater than he'd even suffered in my company. I blamed it on sentiment over the grant adventures he had had in my absence during the great hiatus. A return to domestic life in a fog-covered city, living with a widower that had long since said farewell to the glory days of his life.   
Oh, how hard it must be on him!

His behavior was different from what I remembered, the cold, analytic brain had given way to one that was obviously in doubt. The mask that his face could be,   
was showing cracks. The self-confident character I had known glanced over his shoulder frequently.  
He flinched when I spoke to him, so unobserving had he become, so imprisoned by his mind. He would avoid my eyes but when I caught him watching me,   
I couldn't help but notice the heart-wrenching look in them. Who knows what dark thoughts lay behind these pale grey eyes. I can only guess. 

I believe that I must have fallen asleep for I startled awake when I heard the creaking of the stairs. Step number 14 to be precise, as Holmes ones mentioned this to me.   
The man himself opened the door and halted mid-step when the still burning fire caught his eye.

''Watson.." He sighed, 'Why are you still up and about?' Like it was me who was behaving oddly.   
'Why are you avoiding me?' I asked, maybe a bit too straightforward, but any rudeness could be blamed on the lack of sleep.  
'My dear Watson! I am doing no such thing!' This joke of a conversation gave my friend enough time to flee into his room and lock the door. Tired as I was, I retreated to mine.   
'No use in starting a fuss at this hour', were my last wake thoughts.


	2. Day two.

The following morning found us together at the table, sharing an awkward silence and reading the papers. I had just gathered enough courage to suggest a morning stroll when Mrs. Hudson came in and, unaware of the heavy atmosphere, handed Mr. Holmes a telegram.   
'A case, Holmes?'  
'Yes, Watson, it looks like it. Do not stay up for me.'  
The message disappeared in his front pocket and the man himself disappeared through the front door.

I was alone once more. 'What is the matter with him?' I asked, in the general direction of the teapot but, alas, the breakfast-table held no answers. I sighed and prepared for today's house-calls.

\--

I distracted myself from my thoughts with a severe case of tuberculosis, a broken foot and a tragic miscarriage. The latter had me still in a rather miserable state when I returned to my lodgings. I halted in the hallway and noticed the coat that wasn't Holmes' and certainly wasn't mine. Did Mrs. Hudson have a male guest over? Highly unlikely. A client then? But most of the public was still unaware that Holmes had returned to the land of the living. A criminal would not hang his coat so neat before committing a felony and the Bakerstreet Irregulars would not hang their coats, if they had coats to hang at all. 

For the coat had warned me, I was only mildly surprised when I found a corpulent gentlemen occupying my chair.   
'Mister Holmes.' It wasn't as much a greeting as it was a statement. 'Dr. Watson.' Was his reply.  
Oh, how tempting it was to ignore the metaphorical elephant in the room, but decency and the look of his face kept me from fleeing the scene. The man lifted his black umbrella and pointed towards the sofa. 'Sit down.' He commanded and I, too tired to object, did.  
Like his brother, Mycroft had never been a man for conversation for the sake of conversation and therefor immediately stated the reason of his visit.   
'Doctor, I believe that my brother's return to his former life has been more of a challenge that he expected.'   
'How so?' I asked, though I must admit that I feared the answer. 'Did I do him wrong?'  
'Not at all, docter. I can assure you that the blame lies completely with my brother.' Here he paused to taste one of Mrs. Hudsons delicious scones while I waited impatiently.   
'I believe that my brother lives under the impression that he made a huge mistake, coming back from the dead.' He finally continued. 'Since before that faithful day he has dedicated his life to finding James Moriarty and bringing down the ring of crime around him. It was his raison d'etre, if you will forgive me the hyperbole. I believe he has told you the reason of his disappearance? Yes? Good. I believe that his reasons were not merely noble. He was on the run for something and, if I know my little brother, that something was most likely himself. The professor and his right hand were a puzzle that he has solved now, without dying, much to his own surprise. But now he had no reason not to return to England.'   
'What do you mean Mr. Holmes?' I know he was trying to tell me something, so why not get it over with? Damn the Holmeses and their riddles!  
Instead of avoiding the questions, he simply ignored them. 'Do you know anything about his current whereabouts, doctor?'  
He did not wait for my reply.  
'You must understand what an unpleasant surprise it was to find him on my doorsteps, obviously under the influence of a vile chemical. He demanded access to his accounts so he could build up a new life. In France of all places!'   
'What! Why?' I could not believe what I heard. 'Is he alright?'   
'Phisically? Yes. He is currently sleeping in my guestroom. I came here as soon as I was certain that he wouldn't go anywhere.'  
'But why does he...' I could not speak the words, so I made a vague gesture with my hands.  
The large man pinched his nose and stared out of the window. 'I was hoping that you could tell me.' He said.

It was quiet for a while. I was engaged in thought, Mycroft Holmes in the plate with scones.

'But why would he...? I mean, what did I..? What happened to him that he thinks that he should leave? What is he going to do in France?'  
'The exact same thing he has tried here already; filling his head with mysteries, tobacco, cocaine, anything to kill the thoughts that seem to haunt him.'  
'What thoughts?'  
'I do not know whether it is the subject of the thoughts or simply the amount of them. Having to think all the time can make a man very tired, doctor. Very tired. I have no right to ask this of you, but please, get him out of his head. His head can be such a scary place.'  
'How am I supposed to do that?'  
'I don't know. I am sorry.'  
We were interrupted by the creaking of the door. It was the younger Holmes who entered.   
Mycroft Holmes sighed, stood up and looked at me wearily.   
'Please be careful, doctor Watson.'  
With a nod the brothers acknowledged each other's presence, before the eldest took his leave. 

I stood as well. My friend looked for an excuse to flee. When he found none he said:   
'What did he tell you?' Holmes' voice would have sounded normal to anyone but me, but I heard the panic.  
'What are you doing Holmes?'  
He had gained a sudden interest in my shoes, for he studied them thoroughly.  
'Why would you go to France without telling me, Holmes?' I asked when he did not answer me.  
'Watson, I...'   
'No!' I cut him off, 'You left me once already! Did you think that you could do that to me? Again?'   
I lost my temper there, but I cannot say that I regret it much.  
'I promise you, dear Watson, that my reasons are anything but selfish. The first time I left I needed to save both our lives. I explained that to you. This time...'   
'Well man, out with it! What noble cause do you have for ignoring me, avoiding me and leaving me alone? What great danger awaits the hero this time?' I spat out.   
'I'm not a hero, my dear Watson.'  
'No, you are not. You aren't even yourself right now. You're not even sober!'   
'I see that I caused you pain yet again, Watson. I apologize.'

He would not look at me again. The following silence was only broken by the click of the lock on his bedroom door.

\--

I retired at eleven, in the hope that Holmes would come out of his room at some point. He did not.   
In my bed I pondered how on earth our friendship could be repaired until at last I fell asleep.

I woke from the sound of breaking glass, followed by a rude exclamation. As I ran downstairs, revolver in hand, I realized that it was not a burglar, but a consulting detective that had walked into the glassware on the table. He was currently laying underneath it, trying to hide himself.  
I could not help but smile when I put the gun on the table. The fact that I was not disturbed at all by the situation meant that our lives would soon again be as they were, so many years ago. Normal. Well, the 'Sherlock Holmes' version of normal, that is.

The man himself was slowly trying to get back on his feet. And that was the moment I realized that he was severely injured for there was blood on his vest and there were cuts on his hands and face. He did not seem able to stand up on his own, so I offered him my arm and moved him further into the room. The walk home must have been painfull.

By the time we managed to reach the couch, my weak shoulder was aching terribly. I left him to grab my Gladstone bag and cleaned his wounds. The blood on his clothing was not his own, but that did not comfort me in the slightest. 

I was wide awake by now, so returning to bed was not an option. I therefor took advantage of Holmes' immobile state and sat down.   
'Tell me, Holmes' I said 'what have you been up to these past months?'   
'Would it not be more entertaining to tell the tale of my last case, so you may start your writing again?'   
'Holmes, the last thing on my mind are those stories.'   
'But may I start with it?'  
'If you must...'

 

He told me that the telegram this morning had been sent by a lady who suspected that some of her dresses had been stolen. This strange case turned out to be a disappointingly simple one, according to Holmes, when he found a satin ribbon in the bedroom of his client's brother. The brother turned out to be an alcoholic who could no longer afford his habits and therefor stole from his sister. 'But why dresses, you must be wondering, dear Watson.' He said. I did, in fact, not wonder at all. I was more interested in the main-character of the story, and especially his wounds.   
'Well...' He winched as his bruised back came in contact with the sofa, 'Those dresses were quite expensive and had, unlike the family jewels, no emotional value.'  
But no matter how Holmes waved his arms as he spoke, lowered his voice, I couldn't see this case as one interesting enough for the world's only consulting detective. I voiced my thoughts.  
'Holmes... normally you'd never have taken such a mundane case. And it certainly would not be a reason for your current state.'

The cut above his eyebrow opened again as he frowned, so I decided to stitch it. Carefully I rinsed the blood away and closed the wound with needle and threat.   
While I stood beside the sofa, bend over my patient, he narrated the conclusion of the case.

'Well Watson, after I bade my farewell to my slightly dazed client, I decided to go for a stroll. The mansion is not much more than a mile away from our rooms and I felt like I needed a bit of quiet.' He paused as he waited for me to clear away my instruments and resettle across from him. 'Apparently I was so lost in thought that I did not notice three men following me. Very lost indeed. I can not believe that such... such. Those men are not the type to have mastered any skill. Let alone that of being quiet and invisible.  
They cornered me after twenty minutes, in the alley on the left of the French tailor. And the rest of this unexpected gathering must be deduce-able. Even for you, dear Watson.'

I ignored the insult and we silently agreed to change the subject all together.  
Our further conversation was, as I remember it from long ago, pleasant and comfortable. Comfortable enough to make me slowly fall asleep in my chair. Holmes might want to point out here, that I excel at falling asleep in my chair and that it had nothing to do with comfort.  
My friend was snoring softly on the sofa across from me, though he must have moved during the night because there was a blanket draped over me. That must have caused him some pain.


	3. Day three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Doyle once said: 'I don't care what you do with Holmes, you may even marry him off.'  
> The fandom replied: 'Be careful what you wish for... '

The morning brought us Lestrade. The man sat across from me while Holmes vacated the couch. My friend did nothing to hide his enthusiasm for the possibility of distraction. 'I do hope that you bring me a mystery worthy of my time, Inspector.' he said, even though we both knew that he was desperate enough to work on anything the man offered.  
'It is not a mystery this time, mister Holmes.' The Inspector said. 'I have here a list of names that I want you to investigate.'  
Holmes lifted one eyebrow and said: 'And what is it that makes these names worthy of an investigation?'  
'Well,' and here the man turned red, 'these men are suspected of violating the criminal law amendment.'  
'Which one?'  
'The, uhm, act against buggery mister Holmes'  
'Ah, in that case I bid you farewell Detective Inspector. You may come back anytime you have actual criminals to catch.'  
'I beg your pardon?'  
'You heard me, Lestrade, good day.' And he stood to refill his pipe.  
The Inspector looked at me for an explanation but I could only answer with a shrug after which I walked with him to the front door and let him out.

When I returned Holmes was laying on the settee, his third pipe this morning dangling between his lips while he studied the ceiling.  
He had tricked me in the early morning, but I would not let it happen again.  
'What was that, Holmes?'  
'I believe it is called Detective Inspector Lestrade.'  
'Do not play games, man! What has Lestrade done to deserve such treatment? We both know that you were waiting for a new case, so why not take it?'  
'It is not a case, Watson. It isn't a mystery. It is not even a crime!'

'Not a crime? Men end up in the gaol for it! It is against the law, Holmes. And therefore is a crime!

'A crime it may be, but a victim-less one. Why would I hunt down men who have hurt no one. Their reputations, if not their lives, would be ruined.'  
'But Holmes! These men have broken the law!'  
'And you follow the law before you think for yourself?'  
'We all have to follow the law, Holmes. And by letting themselves in with this... filth! They are guilty!  
'Guilty of what? Loving one another?'  
'Holmes, you cannot call thát love.'  
'Doctor Watson, I remember you as an emotional being, a romantic, but above all a decent man. How can you say this? It is as much love as you must have felt for Mary...'  
'DO NOT COMPARE THAT!'  
'...and as criminal as the times I picked locks to catch true criminals. The law does not tell of good and bad, it is merely a summary of the so called morals in this country.'  
'No matter what arguments you bring Holmes, I still see it as a foul crime.'  
'I know, Watson. I know. Feel free to spy on them, on your own. But I am staying here to write telegraphs to everyone on this list.'  
Here he took Lestrade's list out of his breast-pocket and seated himself at his desk.  
'I need to warn them before someone with good morals, such as yourself, hunts them down.' He said without looking at me.

\--  
I left then, a fight had been inevitable if I had remained at Bakerstreet. I vaguely remember walking along the Thames, passing street that held so many memories. My feet must have been the only parts of me still aware of their surroundings for when they stopped I realized that I had reached a cemetery. And not just any one. Because among the marble crosses and headstones was one that held the name of my friend. It was an empty grave, without a date of birth nor death. It was a fake grave, but I had known this all along.  
There had been no body at Reichenbach. Nothing for me to take home but a few items that meant so much to me.  
It was as if he had never existed. As if Moriarty had never been real. As if all my life with Holmes had been nothing more than a story for the Strand. A story I had come up with to survive the lonely and sad life that had been waiting for me when I returned from Afghanistan. There had been nights when I believed this. As I sat on my own again and no word had passed my lips for days. How could it have been real? Men such as myself do not live adventurous lives. We do not get chosen by men like Holmes to join them. We are born into this world to make it slightly less miserable and then we die, leaving only a body behind.  
But Holmes didn't leave a body. Now I know why, off course. 

I had forgotten coat and umbrella, yet I hardly cared for the rain that had started to fall. It was quiet and peaceful on the field. The noises of the city were silenced by trees and distance. I wondered if Holmes would use this grave a second time when he needed it. Or would I lay here first? Would he want me next to him until judgement day? My place should be next to my dear wife, but could I leave my friend alone like that? Eternity was a long time for a man that could barely survive three years.  
Death had not occupied my thoughts for a long time. Since Holmes had appeared in my study, to be precise. But the days of the great hiatus had been filled with these thoughts. Death had been my most trustful companion when I was alone. Death never forgot about a man like myself. Death in the shape of the roaring falls, the fireplace, the chemicals a doctor like myself could get a hold on. My service revolver had been a personal favorite. Night after night it listened to my ramblings, always giving one solution to all my problems. 

Had I pulled the trigger, would Holmes be standing here? Ignoring the tears that blinded him? Hating himself for his own death?

I stared at a name that meant the world to me, knowing that the owner was sulking on our sofa. Did he hate me now?  
I reminded him of a life that he obviously did not want anymore. Or maybe he wanted the life.  
But not me.

'Do you hate me?' I asked the marble.  
'Why would I do that, dear Watson?' came the reply in Holmes' voice that startled me greatly.  
It was only then that I saw my friend standing next to me. He had followed me here.

'I could never hate you Watson. Never.'  
'Then why do you? What reason lies behind all this ignoring and arguing and silence?' I asked.

'It has nothing to do with you, Watson. I promise. I apologize for making you believe that. But this morning. It was only...' here he stopped for no more than a second '...a very personal matter.'  


'Ah.' 

An acquaintance then, one who had not deserved our insults and harsh words. Holmes spends a large amount of his time in the underbelly of the city.   
He is familiar with every alley, no matter how dark and has connections with professions and locations that a proper gentlemen should not even know about.  
He does not bring me along when a case leads to these places, for I would stand out like a sore thumb, according to him. I do not see it as an insult when he says such thing, I know it to be true. But he! He is a chameleon, changing not only his colors, but his manners, his accent and his movement as well. It is a magical thing to behold. He knows how to seduce a witness into talking, a prostitute as easy as he would the queen. If he hasn't met her already, that is.

In that he is, I must admit, a better man than I. He will always treat his fellow men as an equal, until they prove themselves unworthy of such treatment.  
Because of this, he was known by man and women from all social classes. It did not surprise me that there were some deviants among them.  
'I believe in owe you an apology, Holmes' I said at last.  
'For what? For speaking your mind? And that of so many others.' He muttered the last words before he sat down on the grass with a soft sigh.  
He would most likely stain his trousers and Mrs. Hudson would have something to say about that. If not for this, then for our loud words this morning.

'France, Holmes. Why?' I said after a long silence. 

My apologies would not be accepted, so I tried to begin a new conversation. He thought for a moment before saying 'I want to go to a place where no one knows me. I have lived on my one for a long time and I miss the silence that loneliness brings me.' I was shocked.   
This was the first he had told me of his life during the great Hiatus, and it stirred my darker thoughts that he did not desire my company anymore.  
'But I couldn't', he continued. 'I have lived, believing that you were fine, because all messages from Mycroft suggested that. But he lied to me. I saw that when I came to London. Had I gone to France, as was my plan, we would have both had our separated lives.  
A fresh start. But how could I leave you alone when you were a widower, looking worse then I have ever seen you? So I visited you and now there is no way back. I was so foolish, believing I could heal your life by ruining mine.'  
'What is it about London that is ruining you, Holmes? Is it...' I hesitated, 'me?'  
Rain began to slowly drip and the churchyard looked like it was meant to, mourning and somber.

'No.'

I let out a breath I had held without noticing it. He handed me my coat and opened his umbrella.  
'It is what I did to you. And what I might do to you in the future.'  
'You did what you had to do.'  
'But it wasn't enough.'

 

I did not deny nor agree and after a last salute to an empty grave I linked arms with its owner and we went home.


	4. Day four.

I woke early in the afternoon. When I ventured downstairs I was greeted by Bach's violin concerto in D played by a man that would not acknowledge my presence. I breakfasted under Ernest Bloch and left at the beginning of Johannes Brahms.   
We would not speak of last night, we would not speak of many things. Such is the habit of a British male, and who was I to change that? 

\--

It had been a long day when I returned home. Either he had been playing the whole day or just picked up his instrument again. The room was filled with a cloud of blue smoke. He had most likely never left the room when I was out.  
The piece he was playing was one I had not heard before. Holmes had been composing before his death and it did me good to see that he was returning to his former habits, one step at the time. It would not be long before chemicals would clutter the dining-table and new bullet holes appeared in the walls. Years ago I would have never believed that I could ever look forward to such things.

The melody that vibrated through our rooms was sweet and sorrowful. The musician himself was slowly moving back and forth in harmony with the music. I seated myself, closed my eyes and listened. It would not be long before life was once again like it should be. We would enjoy each other's company, the thrill of a case, Moriarty forgotten and Mary, my dear wife, held in loving memory.

The evening came to an end as Holmes lowered his instrument and pronounced: 'Watson, we have a case!'


End file.
